“You know, mother,” she said, suddenly, “I used to admire papa—very much, in a certain way. I don’t think you ever quite realized that. Of course I’ve been brought up in his church, though I’ve much more sympathy with yours. It always seems to me that his is a man’s religion, and yours is a woman’s. But then—Mr. Griggs says the world is a woman, in a sort of way, so yours ought to be the religion of the world. Never mind—I don’t know enough to talk about these things. What I mean is this. I used to admire papa’s uncompromising way of looking at life, and the way I thought he’d tell the truth and shame the devil at any price, and his cold, unreasoning, settled certainty about heaven and hell—and the way I thought that he took his flinty goodness down town with him, and did right, when one knows that ever so many business men don’t. It all seemed so strong, and cool, and manly. I couldn’t help admiring it. And I believed that he was poor, and that although he wouldn’t say much, he’d fight for us, and die for us, if necessary. And then—he’s handsome, too, and straight, and steely, and formal. I’ve always liked a little formality. Do you see what I mean?”
“Of course,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully, and nodding her head with a far-away look in her eyes.
Katharine had enumerated the very qualities that had once appealed so strongly to her mother.
“Well—” Katharine paused a second. “It’s all a sham. That’s all.”
Mrs. Lauderdale started at the abrupt, rough words.
“Oh, Katharine, dear, don’t say that!”
“It’s true. It’s broken to pieces. It began to crack just before Charlotte was married. It’s all broken to bits. I can see the inside of it, and it’s not what I thought. There’s only one idea, and that’s money. It would need a miracle to make me admire him again. It’s broken to atoms, and what’s so strange is, that it’s taken everything with it in the last few months—and it’s taken the last bit to-day. It’s all gone. I can’t help it. It’s dreadful—but it’s a sort of confession, like your confessions. I don’t believe in God any more.”
“My child, my child!”
Mrs. Lauderdale looked up at her with scared eyes and rising hands, which sought Katharine’s, found them, and gripped them in a frightened way. The devout woman, good at heart with her one big fault, felt as though the world were quaking under her feet as she heard the last words. Not that Katharine spoke them lightly, for she was in earnest, and the declaration of unbelief was more solemn from its strangeness than almost any confession of rigid faith could have been.
“Yes, mother—I know—we won’t talk about it. I only want you to understand me—we’ve been so much together in our lives.”